by Thomas Wood
“Don’t worry,” Peintre said, looking at us in turn. “Philippe is a friend. A trustworthy one. Especially after I see to it that his family will have a good Christmas.”
He chuckled, a hearty one, before belching and coughing his way through to another cigarette.
“Any message that I choose?” he asked, looking back to Christopher for the first time since the police officer had entered the room.
There was still panic drilled into Christopher’s face, which was understandable, as we had no idea if we could trust either of the men in the room. But we had little choice. We were in over our heads and, if they did turn out to be German informants, we would know soon enough.
“Anything you want Raymond.”
14
I had never felt quite so nervous in all my life. There was a plethora of things for me to worry over, and each one of them was taking its place in the carousel of my mind, as the rate of my heart grew more rapid and the viscosity of my blood thickened.
In my short life, more so in the years that I had been to war, I realised that there were two types of fear. There was the fear that drove men on, gave them an overwhelming, yet elusive confidence to press on, to do the very thing that it would take to escape the situation that one was in. The other fear was a crippling one, that made men sit in a corner of a room, catatonic, staring at nothing in particular and thinking only of how hopeless their situation truly was.
It was the second, paralytic fear, that was gripping me.
The apprehension was unbelievable, the likes of which I had never experienced before, not even when racing to the cockpit of my Hurricane, knowing that I could have been running to my own plywood coffin.
I tried to draw the distinguishing features of that fear, the type that had still allowed me to function, and to focus on it, pulling myself back from the brink. But I could find nothing.
That life seemed so far away now, the long drawn-out summer evenings in the local pub, raising a glass to another poor fellow who had got himself shot down or hours of sitting in deck chairs reading, waiting for the Luftwaffe to give us something to do.
At times it had seemed like an almost idyllic existence until the bell rung, and men began to disperse all over the field, a blind patriotism driving them to their own demise.
The carousel turned again though, as I lost sight of those summer scrambles and came face to face with the figure of the police officer, Philippe, who now threatened our entire existence.
There was nothing that we could have done. We couldn’t have interrupted Peintre as he tried to negotiate a settlement but, equally, we couldn’t have disposed of the poor man simply for wanting to visit a friend. But it was that element of not being in control, the very fact that our survival now depended on a factory foreman and policeman, that was causing my heart to flutter in the manner that it was.
I could not help myself but keep thinking of the training that we had gone through, the way in which that we were supposed to get alongside them, befriend them, before attempting to pay them off. We were taught to make friends with our subjects, as it is far harder to betray a friend, than it is an acquaintance, especially when our enemy could throw far more money at them than we ever could.
Bribery was an art, one that took time to nurture and develop and one, if carried out properly, that could lead to very big rewards indeed.
But our approach to Philippe had been nothing short of a butchery, a scene that, had our directing staff at Arisaig known would happen, we would never have made it past our mysterious interviews.
I cringed at the mobhanded and unrefined way that Peintre had offered his friend the chance to make some extra cash, and refrained from burying my head in my hands like I had done as we had sat in the man’s house.
But I had to keep reminding myself, as the carousel gaily turned, we had been left with little choice. In fact, the relief that I had experienced, upon hearing that the two men were good friends, had been overwhelming. That friendship had given us all a second chance. We knew that there wouldn’t be a third.
My mind soon began to wander, away from the police officer, and to the man who had made him the offer.
Once upon a time, when I had been at university, I had known some people who would have described Raymond Peintre as a dirty capitalist, someone who only cared for himself and how deep his pockets became.
And, from what I had seen of his home, elements of that had been true. The glass in his windows were swiftly replaced, while that of his struggling neighbourhood would remain glassless for a long time.
His home spoke of a tale of frustration, one that plainly laid bare the fall from grace of heir to a large automobile empire, to humble foreman. There was money everywhere that I had looked and I daresay that he had a franc or two tucked under the mattress of his bed.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Mike asked, not for the first time.
“Who are you talking about now?”
“The factory owner. What’s to stop him from going and having a chinwag with the Germans? They might pay him a bit more.”
“Same goes for the policeman.”
“True,” he muttered, sighing as he heaved himself up from his chair. “Drink?”
I shook my head, as he gently nudged Christopher’s foot to ask him the same question. He recoiled aggressively, as if the touch had reminded him of some ghastly experience as a child.
His face was flushed, and a thin film of sweat had been pulled right the way over his face. His unathletic and stocky body was curled up into a tight ball, something that looked almost impossible for him.
It wasn’t difficult to see, that Christopher was thinking far too heavily about things, but Mike decided that it was a good time to push him to the edge. I knew why he did it, I had known him for a long time after all. He had done so with many of the other boys that we had known whilst studying, but often Mike’s way of geeing somebody up and coaxing them from a trance, had the innate ability to simply infuriate and frustrate.
“What’s up with you?” he said, trying again to knock at Christopher’s legs to induce the same reaction. “I only asked if you wanted a drink.”
“I don’t want one of your rotten drinks!” Christopher exploded, his legs shooting out as if the jack in the box had been wound up months ago, ready to spring up ferociously.
Mike’s lips pursed, as he poised himself for a good fight, sharpening his tongue in preparation for some witty, but spiteful comeback.
But, to my surprise, nothing of the sort materialised. Instead, quite the opposite occurred.
“Sorry, Christopher. Sorry.”
I almost stood to attention in the middle of the room and demanded to know what was happening. The world seemed quite as if it had been turned on its head. Christopher was showing elements of aggression that I did not know he possessed, while Mike displayed components of something resembling self-restraint. Judging by the look on Mike’s face, even he was not aware that he was capable of such a virtue.
My mouth rather inadvertently hung open as he traipsed around the room, my eyes glaring at him, wanting to catch his eye so that I could burst out laughing. But the sincerity etched into his stare told me that something deeper had occurred, a change in his manner that had more far-reaching effects than I could have guessed at.
It was at that moment that I realised that his whole demeanour was slowly changing. Bar the odd outburst and moment of aggression, his mind seemed transformed. Gone was the blood lust that would have seen him kill anyone who even knew a single German word and there was the rational, compassionate side of his mind.
Gone too was the sharp tongue, as pointed as a dagger, that had done far more damage than a steel blade ever could have done, marking the arrival of something that was the infancy of consideration.
He seemed more thoughtful, able to lose himself in the company of his own mind, something that he had never been able to do before, in all the time that I had known him. He had frequently got bored of hims
elf, always looking to join with others for his entertainment.
But, forlorn, he now sat, sipping away at his drink staring into the hearth of the fireplace. I did not know it for sure, but I guessed at what he was thinking of, or rather who.
I had never seen the girl that he had claimed to have fallen in love with, not until we had the Gestapo on our tails and needed a way out of Tours. She was a pretty young girl, maybe edging on a stereotype of what I might have expected of Mike, but pleasant nonetheless and, just as in love with Mike as he was with her. To the point that she willing to help us escape.
I could not help myself but think of Suzanne, who had loved her own country in much the same way that Mike had loved his girl. She had sacrificed her husband in its darkest hour, been blown up a handful of times and then been prepared to step in front of a bullet.
The sharp pang of my heart told me how much I truly missed her, not just the grounding that she gave me, a rationality, but the moments that we had shared nothing but silence. We had been content in the presence of one another and, on occasion, the physical contact that still had the effect of making my arm hairs stand to attention.
Despite all that, I did not think that I loved her, not in the common sense of the word. We had shared something, something that no one else around us could quite comprehend. It was the loss that we had experienced, the complete feeling of utter despair at the realisation that the people who mean the most to you will never know of your presence ever again.
For her, it had been her husband, a pilot killed in the early months of the war. For me, it was my dear wife and son, the very thought of whom threatened tears to begin streaming down my cheeks.
But there seemed enough fragility and vulnerability in the room, and I decided against letting the horrors of my own memories get the better of me.
Instead, I engaged my imagination, trying to picture what it would have been like the moment that Suzanne had crossed the border, to be greeted by her father in law, Alfred. He too had been a great source of comfort to me, and I had been mightily relieved to find out that he was not actually dead, but very much alive.
The thought of the two of them enjoying Switzerland seemed so distant, the chasm widening at the realisation that Suzanne may never have made it that far.
“Jean!” came the cry that I had been waiting for all evening.
“Georges! How are you, my young friend?”
“Papa says that you are all very tired. But all I see you do is sitting here and listening to the wireless. How can you be tired?”
I chuckled softly, as the tears over a lost bond with my own son began to get the better of me.
“I suppose that it is our old bodies, little one. I could only wish that we could have as busy a life as yours and still have so much energy.”
“Hush, hush,” Andrew rasped, his palm flapping up and down as he did so. Everyone knew what it meant, including the young Georges. It was time for the important bit on Radio Londres.
Dot dot dot dah.
It was a drum beat that I had long learnt to revere, as it thumped out the Morse for ‘V,’ and each time it belted out it felt like an even bigger victory than the letter it represented.
Then came Georges’ favourite part, the waves and twinkles of foreign notes in the background, as the Germans tried desperately to disrupt the signal from reaching the homes of the people they subjugated.
A weird jumble of rather odd poetry began to be read out, and I could only dream of what each line would mean to the men and women that were, as we were, crouched around a small wireless set and listening desperately for something that we recognised.
I looked at Mike, who seemed like he was alive with schoolboy mischief and rascality once again.
I just hope that Peintre is listening as hard as we are.
Then, after a few minutes, there were a few words that I could recognise.
“Nathalie, tes tomates sont mûres.”
And that was that.
“Was that it?” Andrew asked, speaking over the announcer mid-flow.
“Shut up! Shush!” Christopher called out to us, edging so far forward on his chair that he was about to fall off.
We waited for a few moments more, listening in to messages that would have little meaning and almost no consequence for us. But still, at Christopher’s insistence, and due to his volatility, we obliged.
“Yes, that was it,” I replied, my throat hoarse from the tension that was hardening every sinew in my body.
“Nathalie, your tomatoes are ripe. I wonder who Nathalie is?” Mike mused aloud, to no one in particular. “Why Nathalie?”
“His daughter? His wife?” I suggested. “We’ll never know, Mike.”
“Well, I know,” Jules said, propping himself up in the doorway. “And it most definitely isn’t his daughter. Nor his wife.”
“Sly old dog,” Mike said, smiling a big, broad grin, proud of the old mischief-maker.
15
Raymond Peintre had seemed to age significantly in the short time since we had visited him last, the great frown lines having deepened somehow and the laughter lines around his mouth fading until they were almost invisible.
There was a sincerity about him now that he had previously not possessed, although I could not quite put my finger on what it was that made me think so. Perhaps it was because my fuse had started to shorten, the looming deadline which would clang with the sound of bombs whistling down on this part of France.
Mike and I were free to leave whenever we felt like we were in danger, but I could not see how we could ever part with the town of Besançon. There was something about it that had captured our hearts, despite the fact we had nothing for us to call our own. Maybe it was the feeling that we were actually making a tangible difference, to the town, but also on the wider war. If we could pull this off the Germans would not be churning out as many engine parts as they could have done. Without those engines, they couldn’t make tanks, planes, staff cars, the list was as long as my arm.
But it was equally as likely to be the feeling of a home that we had received in the warmth of Jules’ house. He had welcomed us with arms wide and helped us to truly feel like part of his family. Georges was a constant morale booster for us all, the war not able to fully corrupt his innocent little mind.
We had nothing to fear, according to him, nothing to be sad about. He was partly right. We had nothing to be sad about, as long as we accepted that we would be dead before the end of the war, and that was the one thing that I feared the most.
The fact that the way I would perish would be at the hand of my own nation’s bombs only served to exacerbate that fear.
“Raymond,” I said, as he interrupted me with the palm of his hand. I stopped abruptly as I saw the cogs begin to whir in the back of his mind, his eyes sinking into their sockets as he withdrew from the world that we were in.
His lips curled and twitched as if he was possessed by some evil spirit, but the cynic told me that all he was attempting to do was to work out how he could earn himself a little bit more money.
“This way,” he said eventually, his head jerking like his mind was still in the clutches of some demonic being. He led us through hallways of great grandeur and opulence, before taking us upstairs to carry on the tour of magnificent paintings and exquisite artefacts.
“It’s like the British museum,” Mike muttered under his breath. I had to agree with him. The walls were filled with shelves of objects that appeared as if they had been taken from a colonial conquest, from more countries than I could ever name.
“In here,” he said with an outstretched arm. “It will be safer.”
Mike grinned at him as he pushed past him and into the room, “Don’t trust your wife, Peintre? Wise move, wise move. My father always told me much the same about women.”
Peintre glared at him with a stare so cold that I thought Mike might freeze on the spot. Panicking, and just a little short of breath, Mike sensed that he may have made an error of ju
dgement.
“A lovely house, Monsieur Peintre. Beautiful. Quite a wonder that the Germans haven’t taken it for one of their own.”
Peintre lifted his plump, oval-shaped head, in an attempt to look down his nose ever so slightly at us. He wanted the two men before him to know who was in control here, even if we didn’t believe it.
“And why would they do that?” his question was asked with gravitas and confidence, almost making me believe that he was genuinely confused at such a proposition.
The more that I dealt with him, the more that I realised that Peintre would have made an excellent politician. From what I had seen of him so far, I had seen him able to deceive his wife excellently, while also manipulating his voice to such a degree that I almost believed he was none the wiser about Mike’s suggestion.
It was possibly what had made him all the money in the first place.
“Monsieur Peintre, did you listen to Radio Londres yesterday evening?”
He turned away from us and staggered towards the window, as if he was in great pain. Mike looked at me and, tapping his watch, started to make gestures that he thought the man had knocked back a drink or two. It was possible.
He hadn’t been involved in this war like we had, and to then have something like this thrust upon his shoulders could not have been easy for him.
Or maybe his wife had found out about the girl that we had seen him with the day before.
He stroked his beard like some wise old guru, as he stared at, rather than out, the window and sighed. I had tried to guess at what it was that was distracting him, but nothing that I could come up with seemed to justify how one man could be so inattentive as he was.
He half-turned, turning to the large oak desk that was standing faithfully to his left, and he started to twist and turn discarded pieces of paper, that looked as though they had been dumped there months ago. Maybe they were props, to impress people who stepped into his study, or perhaps they had been the last bits of paperwork that he had to deal with before the Germans had commandeered his facility.
